Corpses, Christmas, and Carcasses
by Elissa Penworthy
Summary: It's Christmas at 221B Baker Street. John decides the flat needs a tree, but Sherlock disagrees. Festive!John and Uncooperative!Sherlock


**A/N:** Hi, everyone. I'm back... but not working on/posting my other fics. Oops.

**Disclaimer: Yes, I do own BBC. That's why I'm writing this FANFICTION. Makes sense, right?**

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><p>"JOHN!"<p>

John Watson sighed, turning to look at his flatmate. "Yes, Sherlock?"

The taller man looked appalled. "What is all this?" He poked a long, pale finger at the offending mountain piled on the couch. The bundle glittered ominously, almost warningly, and he jerked his finger back as if it had snapped at him. "It's… _sparkly_."

John felt confused. "You've never decorated for Christmas?" he asked, turning around fully and putting his book down.

Sherlock shot him an exasperated look before stepping back from the glitter-encrusted adornments littering the couch. "But what _is_ it?"

John stood, gaping at the other man. "You really don't know?" When Sherlock shook his head, he answered, "It's tinsel."

"For what?" Sherlock asked, disgusted by the dazzling decorations.

"For the tree?"

"But we don't have one…" The dark-haired man caught John's pointed look and froze. "No."

"I didn't even—"

"We are _not_ going to get a tree, John."

"Why not?" John grinned at Sherlock's flabbergasted look. "There's no harm in it. I've already asked Mrs. Hudson and she's all right with it."

"But—"

"Just a small tree. It won't cost much, and we'll only be gone for half an hour." He smiled "Please?"

If John hadn't know better, he would have said that Sherlock was pouting. "But what if I get a case?"

"You're on _holiday_. Lestrade won't call." When the pout turned into a full-on sulk, John knew he'd won. He stood, grinning, and left the flat before Sherlock could argue. "Oh, and Sherlock?" He poked his head back into the doorway, stifling his smile.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock growled, grabbing his scarf.

He beamed at the petulant look on his friend's face. "You may want to bring your card. Mine still doesn't work. Thanks!"

vVvVvVv

An hour and a half later, the two had picked out a tree and were lugging it up the stairs to their flat. It wasn't a very big tree—only about four feet tall—but John was satisfied with their purchase. When he, Sherlock, and the tree were inside the flat, a new issue arose.

"Sherlock, I can't leave the tree in the doorway. We'd never be able to get in or out!"

The taller of the two scowled. "Well, I'm not moving my boxes. They're for an experiment." He prodded the tree with his foot. "Just put it in the kitchen, there's plenty of room there."

"They're not an experiment, they're a dozen rotting corpses. And no, there isn't room in the kitchen—your stuff is in there, too!" John watched as Sherlock walked across the room, scooped up the decorations, and flopped onto the couch. "Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock whinged. "You said it would take half an hour. It took us twenty-three minutes to get there, fifty-one to pick out a tree, and twenty-two to get back. That's an hour and thirty-five minutes. And getting the cabbie to let us take the tree with us—"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. It's _Christmas_," John pleaded. "Just this once?"

After a moment, Sherlock sighed. He stood and began stacking his boxes in a corner. John tugged the tree into the newly-made space and turned to grab the glittering mass on the floor. He separated half of the heap out and handed it to Sherlock. "I assume you know how to decorate a Christmas tree?"

Sherlock glowered at the gleaming tinsel and ornaments before winding them around the tree. "Can't be too difficult," he muttered.

"Sherlock? John?" Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door to their flat. "Oh, how nice! You got the tree." She admired their handiwork as they decorated, throwing in comments every now and then about how beautiful it looked. "I used to decorate with my family, when I was a girl," she sighed. "We'd always fight about who put the angel on top of the tree."

"Harry and I used to decorate with our mum," John said. "We drank cocoa while we decorated."

"I have some cocoa downstairs, if you'd like to make some," Mrs. Hudson offered. "I don't ever drink it, so you're welcome to it."

John accepted enthusiastically, offering to go down with her and make it. They left the room, not noticing the way Sherlock was eying the tree.

vVvVvVv

"Sherlock, I made you some cocoa," John called as he carefully walked up the stairs. When no one answered, he grew a bit concerned and hurried to the top landing. "Sherlock?"

The sight that greeted him when he entered the flat made him drop the mugs in his hands. "SHERLOCK!" he yelled.

"Yes?" came the smug-masquerading-as-innocent response.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THE DECORATIONS?"

Sherlock looked from the tree back to John. "Do you like them?" he asked, hiding a smirk.

"Like th—no, I don't!"

The triumph on Sherlock's face was frightening as he surveyed his handiwork: twelve bodies smothered in tinsel, lying in a row on the floor. He looked back at his fuming flatmate. "You'll love what I did to the one in the cabinet," he confided before he went to his room, leaving John with two spilled mugs of cocoa and twelve corpses to deal with.

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><p><strong>AN:** So, yeah. First Sherlock fic. How'd I do? Want to actually tell me instead of thinking "Wow!" or "Awful!"? Because that would be wonderful!

(Is anyone who reads LitD still out there? Because I promise I'm finishing it soon. Don't kill me yet.)


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